<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>There's a Traumatized Child, Loose in the Past by TerraCottaNightmare</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29232408">There's a Traumatized Child, Loose in the Past</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerraCottaNightmare/pseuds/TerraCottaNightmare'>TerraCottaNightmare</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accidental Time Travel, After a lot of Angst, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempted Murder, Author is a Technoblade Apologist (Video Blogging RPF), Author is a TommyInnit Apologist (Video Blogging RPF), Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Creeper Hybrid Sam | Awesamdude, Gen, He/Him and They/Them Pronouns for Tubbo, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kinda, Older Sibling Niki | Nihachu, Older Sibling Wilbur Soot, Passive Suicidal Ideation, Protective Sam | Awesamdude, Suicidal Thoughts, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Time Travelling Karl Jacobs, Toby Smith | Tubbo and Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, TommyInnit Needs a Break (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Villain Niki | Nihachu, Villain Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Worldbuilding, again kinda, awesamdad, badboyhalo is a demon, eventually, he gets one, he/him and they/them pronouns for Awesamdude, just in case, no editing we die like the childhood innocence of everyone in the Dream SMP, obligatory time travel au, past villain wilbur soot, plot? never heard of her, somehow these coexist, tagging graphic depictions of violence to be on the safe side, tubbo is adopted</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:08:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,391</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29232408</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerraCottaNightmare/pseuds/TerraCottaNightmare</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Whilst trying to protect Tommy, Karl accidentally yeets him back in time. Shockingly, the traumatized child does not react well to being randomly thrown through time.</p>
<p>Mind the tags. Look at individual chapters notes for warnings. This is not a light fic.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Karl Jacobs &amp; TommyInnit, Niki | Nihachu &amp; TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Niki | Nihachu &amp; Wilbur Soot, No shipping - Relationship, Sam | Awesamdude &amp; TommyInnit, Tommyinnit &amp; Tubbo, Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit, all relationships are platonic - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>142</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1382</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Look They Literally Have a Canonical Time Traveler, I Had To</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is not RPF! All characters are based on their in-game selves, not the actual people playing them. All relationships are platonic/familial.</p>
<p>Chapter warnings: attempted murder, villain!Niki, blood, violence, suicidal thoughts, implied/referenced child abuse</p>
<p> </p>
<p>....This fandom has eaten my soul. I blame my brother and my crippling addiction to time travel stories. I mean come on! We have an all-but-confirmed time travelling character! I'm shocked there aren't more stories like this tbh!</p>
<p>Please be careful while reading this fic. In many ways it's a vent fic. If you get uncomfortable or something in the tags is something that would upset you, please, please give this one a miss. I won't be upset. Stay safe out there!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Tommy honestly has no idea what’s even happening anymore. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He’d been chatting with Niki in the place where L’mantree had stood. She’d seemed… off. Tense. He’d asked her if something was wrong--</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tall grass whips against his legs, branches scratching and scraping up his arms. He skids, narrowly avoiding a berry bush and tripping his way over the roots of an ancient looking oak. He has no idea where he’s going, the sun is setting and he doesn’t have his armor or anything else with him, he didn’t think he’d need it when he was only going to talk to Niki for a bit, the sun had been high in the sky--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The sun had gleamed on the edge of her sword as she unsheathed it, face twisting into a hateful snarl as she’d swiped for him. She’d caught him in the leg, just above the knee, a chunk of blood-soaked khaki fluttering to the ground where his already threadbare shorts had torn. He’d yelped, fallen back, hands raised up as if that would do anything against the enchanted blade--</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His leg doesn’t hurt that badly, but he’s terrified, terrified that if he looks down he’ll trip or run into a tree or something, and he can’t stop running, can’t stop moving, he feels the sting of sweat running down into his eyes and into his wound but he can’t stop--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Niki had been screaming, screaming so loudly, how he’d ruined her life and taken everything from her and it was all his fault, all his fault all his fault all his fault and he tried to defend himself, with words and hands, but she just knocked them aside and slashed for his neck and he’d just barely managed to duck--</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s crying, crying like a little kid but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He hadn’t had any armor on, had no weapons with him, just a little bread and a few odds and ends, a rock that kind of looked like a bunny if you held it just right that he’d wanted to show to Tubbo. Dream is in prison and he’s supposed to be safe, he’s supposed to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe dammit--</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He’d cried then, too, falling and scrambling back and crying for help and for Niki to “stop, please, please don’t hurt me I’m sorry I’ll be better please please </span>
  </em>
  <span>please</span>
  <em>
    <span>--”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The rock comes out of nowhere and slams him to the ground, a choked-off scream locked behind his teeth as it jostles the wound that’s definitely worse than he originally thought. He goes sprawling, landing on his elbows and just barely keeping his face from scraping the dirt. He’s shaking too hard to push himself up, and he collapses the rest of the way to the ground, resigning himself to a death in the dirt. Maybe if he just lies there she’ll get bored of him and make it quick, it’s so much easier when he doesn’t fight back, when he just lets Dream blow up his things, when he stands there and accepts Wilbur’s words instead of trying to argue--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Something had tackled Niki, a dog? The dog had knocked her off balance, and suddenly he was being pulled away, away from the craters and into the woods. Someone was back there, holding her off, Sam maybe? It was hard to tell through the tears, and soon the person who had a hold on him had pulled him too far for him to tell anyway. He didn’t even bother to see who it was who had him, not until Niki’s screams and threats had faded off into the distance.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The light is dying, trickling away like his blood onto the ground, but he can’t make himself move. Maybe Niki won’t even find him. Maybe a zombie or a creeper or something will get him first. He wonders if they’ll be happy-- Jack and Niki. Who’ve apparently been trying to kill him for-- what, weeks? Months? Enough times to warrant a 24/7 watch. And he hadn’t even noticed. What a fucking idiot.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It had been Karl, who caught him when he stumbled to a stop in a clearing under a huge spruce. Karl who’d held tight to his arm even as he’d crumpled, sobbing, Karl who’d slipped and told him that Niki had probably just gotten tired of Jack’s plans falling through, Karl who had let go to get help, he said, but then it was Tommy who was holding tight, he didn’t want to be alone not again please not again--</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a noise, off to his right, and he tenses before relaxing back into the cool earth. He’s starting to shiver from cold as well as shock and exertion. It’s fine. He won’t be here for long anyway.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Karl had wrenched free of his grip, and Tommy had flinched back, bracing for a blow, and then he was alone in the woods except he’d heard something and it was Niki, and she’d tried to say something but he couldn’t hear it over the pounding in his ears and she’d reached for him and he’d kicked her and started running, running, running--</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Someone’s talking to him, he thinks. The voice is high but not nearly as high as Niki’s, or even Ghostbur’s. The words roll over and off him like water, and he can’t tell what’s being said but he doesn’t think whoever it is is going to hurt him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a shame, he thinks, before the darkness swallows him. He’d kind of been looking forward to playing cards with Schlatt. At least the guy had been transparent about wanting him dead.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*************</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s warm. He’s stretched out on something just this side of uncomfortable, the blanket is scratchy and a little thin, and he feels safer than he has since he and Tubbo had fallen asleep in the same bed and woken up all tangled up, the night after getting his disks back from Dream that first time. They’d laughed about it, eaten breakfast together and were already planning their next bout of mischief before the bed had even cooled. It had been a simpler time, back when Wilbur would call him and force him to apologize to the shorter boy as though Tubbo couldn’t get just as sassy when no one was watching. Back before the wars and fighting and Schlatt, Pogtopia and Manburg and Wilbur blowing everything to bits.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy shifts and instantly regrets it. His legs are shaky and sore, every muscle screaming at him for daring to move. One spot in particular sends electric zings of pain up his spine in time with his heartbeat.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuckin’ hell, the fuck did I do to my fuckin’ knee--?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We were kind of hoping you could explain that, actually.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He shoots upright, ignoring his leg and going for a sword that isn’t there. He’s in an achingly familiar cell, and for several terrifying seconds he’s sure he’s back on trial, Dream’s mask gleaming in the sun as he forces Tubbo to choose between L’Manburg and Tommy, and he’d known what he’d pick, no one had ever picked Tommy over L’manburg and he didn’t expect them to start--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But it isn’t Dream who pulls up a chair, sitting with his arms crossed atop the back like he hasn’t a care in the world. It isn’t Tubbo who stares him down, dark eyes flickering in torchlight, eyes that even in happy memories are always, always bright with flames. It isn’t even Fundy, though fuck knows it’s just as hard to look the fox in the eye these days as it is to meet those of the man in front of him, especially when he gets mad and those dark eyes flare just the same--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And, of course,” Wilbur intones, picking an imaginary bit of lint from the cuff of his navy blue coat, “What you’re doing here, who sent you, and why the fuck you thought you could fool us with that dreadful attempt at a disguise."</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Everyone Is Confused and Karl is Having a Bad Day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tommy carries on the family tradition of mildly traumatizing some children. Karl really hopes that he hasn't killed the kid he's been trying so hard to keep alive.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Y'all I-- holy fuck. I am absolutely blown away by your reactions to this fic! Like oh my gosh I literally just sat there and gaped at the number of hits this got in less than a day, y'all are insane and I love it! As a treat, a new chapter! :D</p><p>CHAPTER WARNINGS: Implied/referenced child abuse, mentions of blood, references to past panic attacks, passive suicidal ideation, suicidal thoughts, tommy is still having a tough time y'all</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Tommy takes a deep breath. Another. In for five, hold for five, out for five, hold for five. Just like Sam taught him when the hybrid had caught him shaking to pieces in one of the half-finished hotel rooms, holding his hands tight and coaxing him to “breathe, Toms, it’s gonna be okay--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wishes the man was here now. The breathing doesn’t seem to be working.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He squeezes his eyes shut, hands going up to press over them hard enough that he starts seeing colors. He pulls his hair. He pinches his side. His eyes open, and though he looks more confused than shit-your-pants terrifying, Wilbur is still there, solid as ever.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the eyes that really drive home the reality of the situation. Sure, he’s not wearing his torn yellow sweater, and he isn’t sure if Ghostbur was solid enough to sit, though he was solid enough to crash into walls so that one was up for debate. But Ghostbur’s eyes were always slightly vacant, not all there, and they had certainly never held the mixture of menace and confusion that stared back at him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“W-Wilbur?” His voice scrapes his throat as it crawls its way out, and he smothers down a cough with some difficulty. “Did-- did Dream tell them how to bring you back?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wilbur’s face, which had gone slightly soft at the edges when he’d started talking, went stony the second he mentioned Dream. Tommy did his best to hide his wince-- Wilbur had never liked it when he flinched from him, even towards the end when he had good reason to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dream, eh? Is that who sent you?” His voice is soft but colder than Techno’s backyard.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wha--? No, no no no, we locked him up! In-- in Sam’s prison, Pandora’s Vault and all that. Do… Ghostbur had memory problems. Do you not remember?” Tommy blinks, before freezing in realization.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wilbur says something but Tommy isn’t listening, instead inspecting the room he’s in more thoroughly. It’s the same cell from his trial, with the addition of a cot that had clearly been shoved in last minute. The courtroom, down to the last floorboard and pane of glass, were exactly the same as when he’d last seen them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Back before L’Manburg had gone up in flames for the final time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah, okay,” his shoulders slump, and he settles into the most unaffected position he can manage. Left knee bent up, right trailing down to let his foot rest on the floor, arms crossed atop one knee in a pose that always sent Wilbur fussing about his </span>
  <em>
    <span>poor bloody spine.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  “I’m dreaming.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wilbur pauses. Blinks. “... I’m sorry?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m dreaming! I mean I can’t be here, the courthouse went up with the rest of it. This place isn’t real anymore so I must be. Pretty vivid one, too, I’d only been here a few times before-- well, y’know I suppose.” He’s babbling, but if that’s what’s keeping Dream-Wilbur from snapping and unloading on him like he does all his other nightmares, he’ll babble ‘til his throat dries up the rest of the way.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...I… I don’t--” Wilbur cuts himself off, abruptly standing. In that moment, he looks exactly as Tommy remembers-- tall, strong, larger than life. Like a man he’d follow to Hell and back, just to send a postcard to show they’d been.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You hit your head. Clearly the damage was worse than we originally thought. I’ll send someone to check on you shortly.” And with that, Tommy is… alone. Completely alone. In a cell. By himself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ahhhhh, I see! One of </span>
  <em>
    <span>these</span>
  </em>
  <span> dreams.” He sighs, falling back against the stiff surface of the cot. One arm slings across his face, covering his eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“By nightmare standards, this one is almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>tame</span>
  </em>
  <span>, if boring. Ah, well. Better boring and quiet than everyone I’ve ever loved telling me how disappointed they are in me--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The door creaks open, slowly, and only the fact that he recognizes the voice that filters through his monologue stops him from going for his sword yet again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“--told us not to! We don’t even know who it is, they could be a spy, or some kind of-- body-snatcher, here to replace you with a pod-person!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sighs, quietly. The parts with Tubbo are always the worst-- Tubbo attacking him, with words or a sword or, one particularly bad night, a familiar diamond ax. Tubbo, crying as Technoblade blows him up. Tubbo, chest bloody, the weapon falling from his equally bloody hands. Tubbo, heart visibly breaking as he tells him the discs will always be more important than him--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tubbo mate, you’ve been spending far too much time with Techno. It’s definitely time to cut back if you honestly believe that some random bastard we found bleedin’ out in the woods is here to </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘replace me with a pod-person’.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The fuck even is a pod-person?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>that.</span>
  </em>
  <span> That’s new.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Really? What, Tubbo wasn’t enough, I’m gonna sit here and get yelled at by myself too now? I mean I s’pose it adds a bit of variety…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh that’s weird. That’s-- that’s really weird.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His voice echoes in the largely empty room, reverberating in new and interesting ways, but it’s still unmistakably his own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The only problem is that he wasn’t the one using it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tommy heaves yet another sigh but refuses to sit up. If they’re gonna yell at him, they can do it just as well with him lying down. Besides, if he moves his leg might actually mutiny and kill him-- his knee feels a little like they’ve replaced his skin with lava. He most likely tore his stitches, but he can’t really bring himself to care-- in fact, it’s almost funny. He tore his dream-stitches by dream-moving too much. Maybe he’ll dream-bleed out and get a few moments peace before someone else decides to fuck with his life.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Two sets of footsteps approach-- one long, confident, the other hesitant and taking twice as many steps as the other (it’s actually a step and a half for each of his, though he’d never admit to having counted, having measured his own stride so that Tubbo is never too far behind him)-- and soon a shadow is covering the little light that seeped past his arm. He gets the distinct feeling that someone is watching him. He wonders if Dream feels this way-- like a rare new fish, popped into a tank to be poked and prodded and </span>
  <em>
    <span>examined</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tommy, c’mon, he’s gonna be back soon we gotta go--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can’t just tell me I’ve got a doppelganger and then make me leave before I even see the bitch! Oi, mate! Sit up, I wanna see the guy so unbearably handsome that poor dear Tubbo mistook you for me!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One of his eyebrows twitches. Was he always this obnoxious? No wonder no one wanted to hear him talk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“First of all, he looked like Hell-- all covered in dirt an’ leaves an’ blood. I kinda thought you’d died. Or that you’d fallen out of a tree again trying to catch a bee.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That was </span>
  <em>
    <span>one time</span>
  </em>
  <span> and if I remember correctly, that was </span>
  <em>
    <span>your fault--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We were seven! I didn’t expect ya to try and climb a tree taller than the house--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Six.” The voices go quiet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...What?” Dream-Tommy isn’t nearly as good at hiding his shock as he thinks he is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was six. Tubbo was seven. I fell and scraped my knee and he cried for almost twenty minutes, even after Wilbur patched me up and pinky-swore I’d be alright.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The shadows shift, and he scrunches his eyes closed. At some point his arm had slipped down to dangle off the edge of the cot. He can just barely see two figures, the torch just behind them reducing them to one tall and one short shadow, heads bent together and frantic whispers travelling far better than either realizes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“--fuck, fuck--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How does he know--?!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“--</span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, fuck, I don’t know--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What if--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s no way, don’t be absurd--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>But then how--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know, fuckin’--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The door creaks open again, and his blood runs cold.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I thought I might find you two in here!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The voice is cheerful but that doesn’t mean anything. She’d sounded cheerful then, too, just before trying to cut him in half--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In half a heartbeat, he’s rolling off the cot and to his feet, ignoring the pain of his forehead cracking against the edge as he presses back against the cool obsidian. He’s as far back as he can get, hands up and out as though that will protect him, he doesn’t have his sword or his armor, fuck, fuck--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Niki stares at him, eyes huge and surprised. In one hand, she holds a water bottle. In the other is a gleaming potion bottle. The low light and glimmer of magic obscure the color-- not that it matters. No way is he making it </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> easy on her. If she wants to kill him--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“--you’ll have to fuckin’ work for it. I’m not just-- not just gonna lay down an’ let you fuckin’ stab me ‘cause we’re-- we used to be friends.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Distantly, he hears his own voice, realizes he’s saying things he normally wouldn’t dare to. Blood drips down the side of his face in tiny rivulets. One of the shadows murmurs something and takes off, streaking out the door in a blur of blue and red and gold and not bothering to close it behind them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s tired, so very tired, and his head hurts, and the world is getting blurrier by the second but he can’t let go, not now, not when he almost feels okay sometimes, not when he’s just gotten okay with seeing a hole left by a creeper without instinctively going for the clasps of his armor, not when he managed to pillar up to the hotel’s roof to consult on the final design--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“--</span>
  <em>
    <span>without so much as glancing down, I’ve just started to want to live you can’t kill me yet, it isn’t fuckin’</span>
  </em>
  <span> fair--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He swipes at his face, smearing the blood back towards his ear and catching the tears before they can fall.</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>“</span><em><span>I </span></em><span>ruined your</span> <span>life, Niki? Is that something I did? </span><em><span>I </span></em><span>did that?”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He flinches back when the blonde moves towards him. The door shoots open, slamming against the wall with a damning ‘crash!’ and he knows his luck isn’t good enough for it to be Sam and Fran again, and he’s right.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even with tears and a probable concussion blurring his vision, he’d recognize Wilbur by his footsteps alone-- long, purposeful strides that nevertheless allow for the shorter of the pair (undoubtedly Tubbo) to keep pace with him. The shorter boy beelines for the other figure, and it hurts his heart the way they click together, blurring into a blob of navy and crimson.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wilbur pauses next to Niki before moving closer, slowly, like he’d approached the hurt rabbit they’d found one day when Phil was off someplace. Like he’s going to lash out at any moment. He reaches out a hand and Tommy can’t stop the flinch in time. The hand retreats.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You wanna know why I’m here? What happened to my leg? Ask. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Her.”</span>
  </em>
  <span>  He spits, voice cracking as the tears finally start cascading down his face faster than he can swipe them away. “She and Jack have been-- fuck, they’ve been trying to kill me for fuckin’ </span>
  <em>
    <span>weeks</span>
  </em>
  <span> and I thought we were </span>
  <em>
    <span>friends, dammit--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His knee finally gives out and he slides down the wall, landing in a gangly heap on the floor. He’s just so… </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He thinks Wilbur might be trying to talk to him but he can’t make himself focus, instead letting himself drift back to a time when Wilbur meant safe and slipping off into the darkness.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*************</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Karl knows he’s in trouble the second he lands.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For one thing, he knows for a fact that Tommy had come with him for at least part of the ride. Which is a problem in it’s own right-- the last thing he needs is someone knowing about his abilities, especially someone with the subtlety of a megaphone to the face. Already he can hear the kid, squawking, running around and telling everyone who’d stand still long enough to listen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For another, Tommy had </span>
  <em>
    <span>let go mid-trip</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Even now the thought sends a shudder of fear down his spine. He’s never lost anyone in transit before. He has no idea what’s happened, if he’s in the past, the future, another dimension, </span>
  <em>
    <span>holy fuck did he indirectly murder the child he’d been trying so hard to save</span>
  </em>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But the main reason is actually rather more urgent, and that’s the dog that fly-tackles him and the sword that finds its way to the skin of his throat. Sam stands over him, looking every inch the Warden as he hisses, a low, constant sound that blends with the dog’s growl and ensures Karl stays very, very still.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You have ten seconds to tell me what you did with Tommy before I throw you in there next to Dream.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Karl doesn’t dare go for his sword-- he doesn’t want to hurt Sam, who’s honestly the only other adult he currently trusts with Tommy’s safety. Besides, his scabbard is pinned uncomfortably between his hip and the cold, unforgiving ground. At that angle, he’d slice himself up before Sam even got a chance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hissing grows louder, Fran plants one paw squarely at the base of his neck, and he remembers that he’s supposed to be talking so that he doesn’t wind up with even </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> problems.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I--I got him away from Niki fine, but I--” he pauses. Far more hangs in the balance now than ever has before-- he can feel space-time warping, rippling in new and terrifying ways.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sam.” He locks eyes with the creeper hybrid, feeling oddly calm even as possible futures wash over him, each worse than the last. “Can I trust you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Solid black eyes stare down at him-- no pupils, no sclera, just deep, fathomless black, partially blocked by locks of choppy green hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That depends,” they intone, voice cold and sharp as any sword, “Entirely on what. You did. </span>
  <em>
    <span>With my kid.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yes, Karl decides. For better or for worse, he’s going to trust this person.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hopes it’s for better. He really, truly does.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And done! :3 Just saying if you wanted to drop a kudos or a comment I'd probably die of happy--</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. This Was Supposed To Be Angsty But Instead, Have Fluff and Baking and Jokes I Guess</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tommy is unconscious again, Wilbur and Niki are adorable friends, and fun fact you can in fact enchant a book to have Sharpness V as of the Wii U version of Minecraft</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This was supposed to be angsty and sad but then Things happened and Niki and Wilbur decided to be Wholesome. THIS IS NOT SHIPPING-- they're just very adorable wholesome friends lol. Hope you enjoy!</p><p>Trigger warnings: Mentions of blood/injury, implied/referenced suicidal ideation, much swearing, many swearing, honestly I think that's it</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Wilbur is not running away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Being president is a lot of work. Their nation is rapidly growing, new people popping up practically every day, bringing with them businesses and opportunity but also petty squabbles and the need for roads, buildings, infrastructure. It’s only sensible, then, that once he convinces Niki to check in on their new enigma, he opts not to return with her and instead sets off for his office and the pile of paperwork that had likely only gotten bigger since he’d left that morning. He was not running away. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>...Okay, maybe he was running away. Just a little.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was too much, going back. To look at the person who’d stolen his little brother’s face, the kid he’d practically raised, who looked so </span>
  <em>
    <span>broken</span>
  </em>
  <span> when he looked him in the eye. Who said his name the way some said Techno’s, like a prayer and curse. Who’d babbled on in that familiar cheerful voice with the most dead expression he’d ever seen, not even a spark of light in those nearly-grey eyes. Tommy’s eyes aren’t grey, aren’t supposed to look like that, not ever, he was supposed to </span>
  <em>
    <span>protect him</span>
  </em>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head, violently, blowing his hair out of his face. Not Tommy. Whoever is in that cell is most certainly not Tommy. Tommy is safe, Tommy is fine, Tommy is likely causing mischief even now that he’ll have to deal with later. Tommy will never look so… desolate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wilbur shoves his glasses back up his nose and huffs. He ought to ask Fundy if he recognizes whoever their attempted interloper is based on scent. He… He ought to talk to Fundy, really. Take a day off and catch up. He feels far too much like Phil these days, even as he works alongside the young hybrid to make their nation a bigger, better place.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s shaken abruptly from his thoughts by a shout. Tubbo skids to a stop centimeters from him, eyes wide with panic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“W-Wilbur,” he gasps, neck bent back in a way that cannot be remotely comfortable to look him in the eye. His hair is a fluffy mess, and only his clear urgency prevents Wilbur from messing it up even more. He’d raised Tubbo right alongside Tommy, whilst Phil and Techno were off adventuring, and despite the ever-growing list of signs that the two were slowly, slowly becoming adults, sometimes they did or said something that turned them back into a pair of energetic eight-year-olds, charging into trouble every ten seconds regardless of how many child-proofing measures he employed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s-- I’m sorry I know you said-- but Tommy-- and then Niki-- and he just started </span>
  <em>
    <span>yelling</span>
  </em>
  <span>, awful things, terrible things--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Biting back a curse, he lays a firm but gentle hand on Tubbo’s shoulder, quieting the boy and doing his absolute best to maintain his composure. “Tubbo. Breathe. What’s going on?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The kid all but collapses into the touch before squaring his shoulders. Wilbur bites down the pride he feels-- now isn’t the time to get all mushy and sentimental.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tommy and I went to see the-- the guy. He said some… weird things, things he shouldn’t have known, but then Niki came in and he just-- I think he hit his head? He was bleeding, and he started yelling about how he wasn’t gonna sit there and let her kill him--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wilbur curses aloud this time, unable to catch it in time. Remembers Niki’s face, her misgivings about being the one to tend to the imposter’s injuries.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You didn’t see his face,” she’d muttered, voice going soft-- softer than normal. “He looked... scared. Scared of </span>
  </em>
  <span>me</span>
  <em>
    <span>. I don’t think he wanted to hurt me, not really-- he took me out at the knees. I had a sword on me, plainly visible, and I wasn’t going anywhere without help or a potion, but he just-- ran, and kept running.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Tommy and Tubbo weren’t allowed anywhere near the stranger until further notice, and everyone else had been busy, so he’d badgered her into making sure whoever-that-was didn’t die before they could figure out what was going on.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“C’mon,” he just barely stops himself from sprinting, forcing his strides to stay even and slow enough for Tubbo to keep up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a long moment, they’re silent, moving swiftly back towards the courthouse and whatever fresh Hell awaited him inside.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wilbur,” Tubbo murmurs. Quiet, so quiet, as though he’s afraid of the words he’s speaking. “That… that guy. He knew about-- about when we were kids. When Tommy fell out of the tree, that first time. Corrected me just like-- just like Tommy does whenever I bring it up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wilbur’s lungs scream, and he dimly realizes that running and not breathing is not a good combination. He lets out the breath he’s holding, slowly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What if… Wilbur. How could he know that? We’re the only ones who’d know that story. Us and...”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His eyes shut tight, for just a moment. He can’t think of anything to say except, “...We’ll get to the bottom of this, Tubbo. Don’t worry about it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*************</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sky is clear, the sun shining brightly down upon the streets of L’Manberg. A lovely breeze weaves around buildings and through windows, playing through the leaves of the trees and soothing away the worst of the heat. All in all, it would be a lovely day if not for the screaming.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The door is slightly open when they finally reach the courthouse, but Wilbur’s sure the noise would’ve escaped regardless. Even when he’s trying to be quiet or stealthy, Tommy’s voice manages to carry, demanding attention from everyone in the vicinity, and it seems the imposter has managed to replicate that quality. Luckily, no crowds had gathered-- the last thing he wants is the knowledge of whatever-this-is getting out before he has a handle on it. All the same, he knows that he’ll need to make some kind of statement, today or the next. Too many people pass through on their day-to-day routines for this to go unnoticed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One thing at a time, he decides, all but throwing the door off its hinges as he takes in the scene. Tubbo, after a moment of awkward hovering, dashes to Tommy’s side-- the boys are both pale as ghasts, leaning into each other like they’re ten and Techno’s telling a scary story again, unaware or perhaps uncaring that Wilbur will spend hours getting either boy to sleep for the rest of the week. He decides they can handle each other for the moment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Niki is likewise pale. Her knuckles are white where she’s clutching tight to a potion of healing and a bottle of water, and he packs away the guilt he feels for putting her in this situation, instead following her gaze--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Where the imposter had been calm, docile even, if confusing, when they were alone, it’s as though Niki’s presence has flipped some switch. Even as he yells, screams, surely doing further damage to his already-rough-sounding throat, he cowers, endeavoring to fold his tall, lanky form into the smallest space he can manage. Niki had been right (of course she was, she was the most level-headed out of all of them and he ought to remember that)-- the kid was afraid of her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Terrified</span>
  </em>
  <span> of her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Niki,” he moves slowly, making sure she sees him coming. Her hands are trembling, and he slowly takes the bottles, the clink of the glass lost amidst the noise, “I-- Could you please take the kids to get something to eat? They’ve doubtless missed lunch.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Niki’s eyes meet his, and she nods. He chooses to ignore the tears welling in her eyes, at least for now. She likewise neither accepts nor rejects the apology in his. She leads Tubbo from the room, Tommy following as though magnetically pulled along. He hopes he’s done the right thing, giving her something to focus on until he can properly apologize.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He focuses back on the problem at hand. The Tommy look-alike is still yelling, eyes blazing at the spot where Niki had stood as though he hasn’t quite registered that she isn’t there anymore. He may not be able to-- somehow he’d managed to injure himself, blood running down his temple and streaking oddly across his cheek.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wilbur moves, slowly, carefully, like he does when Techno wakes up from a night terror and doesn’t quite remember where he is, screaming at voices he can’t hear. Something in the stranger’s eyes is familiar, that way, eyes shiny and blank. The kid cringes back further, back finding a corner, and it’s only when he’s dropping his hand that he realizes he’d been reaching out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s hard, so hard, to remember that this </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t his little brother</span>
  </em>
  <span>, sitting there in front of him and looking like he’s shaking apart. Crying, tears and blood streaking his already-ruined shirt sleeve as he swipes angrily at his eyes. His dead, blank, grey-blue eyes that look like they belong in the face of a drowned and not his </span>
  <em>
    <span>baby brother.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he mumbles, keeping his voice deep and calm. “ Hey, it’s okay. She’s gone, Niki’s gone and she’s not going to hurt you. None of us are going to hurt you. I swear.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Those eyes focus on him, as much as they can. Wilbur’s still several feet back, and the cell is dark, but even in the dim torchlight he can tell the potential spy’s pupils are two different sizes.  He lists dangerously to one side. Not-Tommy grimaces, and there’s blood on his teeth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You wanna know why I’m here? What happened to my leg? Ask. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Her.”</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The tears well in his eyes as his voice breaks, not even bothering to wipe them away as he begins to sway slowly in place. “She and Jack have been-- fuck, they’ve been trying to kill me for fuckin’ </span>
  <em>
    <span>weeks</span>
  </em>
  <span> and I thought we were </span>
  <em>
    <span>friends, dammit--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wilbur barely gets out a confused “Niki and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jack--?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> before the stranger’s leg gives out. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to hit his head again on the way down. Unluckily, he’s unconscious, and therefore unable to clarify any of the insanity that had just come out of his mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He waits, a good long while in case it’s some kind of trick, before sighing and letting himself into the cell. It’s not nearly as hard as it should be to lift T-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>the imposter</span>
  </em>
  <span>, for all that he gangles awkwardly-- he’s far too light for his height. Maybe it’s a side-effect of whatever made him look like Tommy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Desperately, he wishes that Phil or Techno would answer his messages. His many, many messages. He’s never heard of anything that can mimic an appearance and voice so well-- though their acting could certainly use some work. Wilbur sighs, dabbing at the headwound and pulling out a spare roll of bandages. He’d learned to keep several on his person at all times, with Tommy around.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He props the imposter up as best he can and trickles the potion down his throat. Hopefully, that would get rid of most if not all of the concussion, and he’d be able to get some actual </span>
  <em>
    <span>answers.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*************</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s still afternoon by the time he gets to Niki’s bakery, the sun only barely brushing the tops of the tallest trees. This fact had not stopped Tommy and Tubbo both from conking out in a corner booth, laid out in a sunbeam like a pair of kittens-- Tubbo’s head on Tommy’s shoulder and Tommy doing truly horrible things to his spine. Their legs are caught in a hopeless tangle. He rolls his eyes, trying to ignore the wave of fondness that rises up and tries to turn him all sentimental. If the two end up in a more comfortable position, his coat bunched up under Tommy’s head, that’s no one’s business but his own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Niki is back behind the counter, hands working away at a lump of dough even as she stares, eyes unfocused, at the wall ahead. Her face would almost look serene, if not for the wet marks on her collar and the redness of her eyes. A wonderful smell announces that she’s been baking her stress away for some time-- he spots two trays of cinnamon buns on one counter and what looks like a cake and two pumpkin pies still in the oven.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It wasn’t him. Not really.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her shoulders tense briefly before slumping. Her hands work away, but there’s a miserable little twist to her mouth now that he hates himself a little for putting there. It’s hard to remember that she’s only a few years older than Tommy, sometimes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know.” She glances at him, eyes older than the trees around them. She nods towards the cinnamon buns. “They should be cool enough to eat now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Serious conversation or no, he’s not about to turn down free sweets. “I shouldn’t have made you do that. Go in there, I mean.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, you shouldn’t have.” She sprinkles a bit more flour on the counter, gesturing to a small container of cinnamon.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hands it over. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know you are.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He packs up the remaining cinnamon buns. She pulls the pies from the oven and empties out the last of the flour onto the counter before going back to kneading.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m getting tired of not understanding what’s going on in my own bloody country.” Wilbur grumbles at last. Somehow even when he’s trying not to, he ends up confiding in her. He’s supposed to be comforting </span>
  <em>
    <span>her,</span>
  </em>
  <span> dammit!</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s… upsetting. I’m upset. And confused. And I want </span>
  <em>
    <span>answers, dammit, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but it’s like getting blood from stone! Every word out of his mouth is more confusing and nonsensical than the last-- he apparently thinks all this is a fuckin’ dream! Hell, he may not even </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>any answers, he might’ve just been sent in to cause chaos so we’re vulnerable to attack, or to get information, or--” His hands are fisted in his hair, hat fluttering to the floor, and only the children passed out in the next room keep him from shouting his frustrations. Niki hums quietly, deep in thought, and he finds himself calming, the familiar sounds and smells soothing his frazzled thoughts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have you considered…” Niki pauses, hands still working the dough. She reaches for the bag of flour and doesn’t seem to realize it’s empty. “...There might be a way to get answers, aside from interrogation.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She frowns, tossing the old bag in the bin. “Get me a new one? It’s on the top shelf and I seem to have misplaced my step stool.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Really?” Wilbur passes her a new bag of flour. Wonders why she has shelves so tall if she can’t reach them. Considers asking. Decides he doesn’t want to die today. “What, there’s someone I can walk up to and go, ‘hey, we seem to have acquired a possibly-spy who miraculously looks like a washed-out, fucked-up version of my kid brother, yes two Tommys is the stuff of nightmares, care to come poke him until he stops doing that please?’”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Niki’s smile is thin, but there. He’ll take what he can get. “There may be a better way to say it, but effectively, yes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She wraps up the dough, moving to pull the cake out of the oven.  Wilbur scoots off to the side so she can retrieve her oven mitts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s fairly new-- not settled into any one faction yet. He tried to join us, actually-- Tommy turned him away. Too American, he said.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Niki sets the cake on a cooling rack. Frowns, attempting to blow her hair out of her face. Wilbur smiles, pulling a spare hair tie from one of his many pockets. He’s halfway through braiding her hair before he realizes who she’s talking about.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait, you want us to ask </span>
  <em>
    <span>Karl</span>
  </em>
  <span>? The one engaged to Sapnap, Dream’s right hand man?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Niki’s facing away from him, but he knows she’s probably half a second from pinching the bridge of her nose, regardless of the flour all but coating her hands and forearms. “Word is he’s very travelled, with an extensive library-- all kinds of old texts--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So he tells a good tale. That doesn’t mean he can help us, </span>
  <em>
    <span>would</span>
  </em>
  <span> help us if we asked--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do we have any other options?” Niki looks at him, over her glasses, and her expression and tone are so dry that for half a second he’s confused when the hair still between his fingers is blonde rather than a pale pink.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He gets back to braiding, tying off the plait before sagging back against the nearest counter, nearly putting his hand in a forgotten tray of cupcakes. “...Possibly? Bad is… well, he rather defies our ideas of possible. And while he’s Dream’s friend I can’t see him turning us away if we ask for help.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shoots him a grateful look before shifting the cupcakes to a bare patch of counter. “Bad is currently living with Punz, who happens to also be one of Karl’s friends. I’m not even sure Karl’s met with Dream, outside of his introduction.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wilbur sighs, hand running through his hair. It’s quiet, the only noises being the ovens and Niki as she rumages about, finally pulling out a pair of piping bags and a wooden spoon.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...This can’t get out to the greater SMP. We’re a new nation, an experiment, and everyone is looking to us to see if we sink or swim. The last thing we need is to imply that we can’t handle something so simple as a potential spy by ourselves.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then swear whoever you ask to secrecy.” Niki begins pulling out the ingredients for icing, making grabby hands for a pair of bowls and thanking him quietly when he passes them over.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What, take their word for it?” He can’t help but laugh, an ugly sound even to his own ears. There are very, </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> few people he trusts implicitly, now, and Niki knows it- she’s one of few on the list.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All the same, this is not something he can solve himself. He glances at his communicator-- dark and blank. Devoid of answers, devoid of so much as a ‘read’ notification. Blank even when he’d passed along the news of his death, news of Tommy’s death, Tommy’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>deaths,</span>
  </em>
  <span> pleas for help and guidance ignored.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sighs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll call Bad. When he gets here, we can ask him what he thinks of Karl. If he vouches for him, and Bad can’t help us, we’ll call Karl.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Niki grins, the setting sun painting her in golden light as she holds out a newly filled piping bag and motions for him to join her at the counter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If anyone’s awake to see him staggering home that night, two half-sleeping boys hanging off him and his face and hair coated in frosting but with a smile like the sun, looking far from presidential but closer to the man who’d lead them through Hell than he had in months, no one ever brings it up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*************</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Karl sighs, dropping his head to the table. His skull makes a solid ‘thunk’ as it collides, which is odd, considering his brain feels a bit like oatmeal. Oatmeal with pain receptors. Lots and lots of pain receptors.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...No luck?” Sam, for all his height and bulk and natural intimidation, looks decidedly awkward perched on the edge of one of his tables like there isn’t a perfectly good chair a few inches to his right. Granted, its a chair designed for someone of a more average height, but it’d certainly be more comfortable than leaning against a hard slab of wood for… however long it’s been.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Being underground is not conducive to telling the time. Nor is going into a trance. If nothing else, he applauds Sam’s ability to sit still and not move for waaaaay too long. He himself can barely manage it for ten minutes-- much less while sitting up straight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s like… there’s this… pond? And someone’s throwing a ton of pebbles in and is making all these ripples. And I have to try and figure out where they’re standing based on where and how the pebbles hit the water. Whilst focusing really hard on who I am and what I’m doing so that I don’t straight up forget who I am.” Karl sighs. It’s damn near impossible to describe what, exactly, he does-- it’s beyond his ability to put to words. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... Well that sucks.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He chuckles, ignoring the way it sends a shot of pain up his spine and into his poor, poor head. “Thank you for staying quiet. I know it can’t’ve been easy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam shifts, ever so slightly. “It probably helps that I left for a bit.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns his head, temple still pressed to the table.  His spine will ache later but he can’t bring himself to sit up. “You left?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wanted to make some things. To help. Left all my redstone at home, and you said we’re only sent back with our inventory anyway, but it’s always good to have some kind of backup. Hope you don’t mind, I used some of your lapis.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They cross the room in two strides, plonking something down on the table in front of him. Karl bites the bullet and finally forces himself to sit up, suppressing a groan.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“A book?” Karl blinks down at the offending object with trepidation. Magic plays about the cover, sending little patterns of light skittering across the ceiling. It does nothing to soothe his headache. “Like, for enchanting…?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, the book itself is enchanted. Sharpness V. Catch someone with that thing and the right splash potion and they’ll be down for the count. Plus, no one expects trouble from some guy holding a book.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His lips quirk up, near uncontrollably. “So… You…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam turns to face him, exasperation clear even in his slightly inhuman face. “Just… Spit it out.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You… Throw the book at people?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The creeper hybrid lets out a sigh that seems to rise up from his very bones, but it’s devoid of hissing. Karl smiles and goes back to searching, trying to ignore the pounding behind his eyes. After all this is over, he’d rather like to get to know the hybrid a bit better. He seems like a good friend to have.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm not sorry about the book joke I find that hilarious and I love it.</p><p>Sam: Don't worry Tommy, Dream's goign to prison or a long time. We're really gonna throw the book at him</p><p>Sam, later: *pelting Dream with inexplicably sharp books* If only we had lemons--</p><p>You may have noticed that we've officially drifted out of canon. There's no hope of ever returning. Sorry if that bothers anyone but given the directions canon is going lately I feel like it won't ^^" Comment owo?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Can You Tell That Bad is Lowkey One of my Faves or am I Not Trying Hard Enough</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It has been a month and I have no idea what this is. Worldbuilding? Lets call it worldbuilding. <br/>Also Bad is here now so that's cool</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Me, trying to write this chapter: So they walk through the city to find Wilbur--</p><p>My brain, probably fueled by far too much Monster: BAD LORE! DEMON LORE! SOULSSSSSS!</p><p>Me, wishing I had a child leash for my own damn mind: *sighing* demon lore I guess--</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Bad is concerned, naturally, when he gets the message.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He and Wilbur aren’t exactly friends-- though officially neutral, he’s self-aware enough to know that his continued friendship with Dream has strained many of his relationships. Even so, he’s on decent terms with the L’Manbergians. They can pass by each other and exchange greetings and even have short, pleasant chats without anything coming to blows, which is downright neighborly considering the server has yet to go a day without </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> blowing up or catching fire.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All the same, they aren’t close-- certainly not close enough to justify the only mostly-coherent message that wakes him up near midnight (it couldn’t have waited until morning, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really?), </span>
  </em>
  <span>and it’s completely beyond him why Wilbur would go to him with a problem so serious that, apparently, not a single person in all of L’Manberg can figure it out. So important that the president feels the need to swear him to secrecy, unable to tell even Skeppy where he’s going.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Part of him wants to decline, to tell Wilbur to seek help elsewhere (and not just because of his lack of messaging etiquette). Though the war is over, tensions are still running high, and the last thing he wants is to walk willingly into some kind of trap-- It wouldn’t be Wilbur’s style, admittedly, but Tommy was Wilbur’s right hand man, and Bad’s pretty sure that kid could talk his big brother into just about anything. It would be horribly embarrassing if he ended up gift-wrapping himself to be used as a bargaining chip in the ongoing drama between the greater SMP and L’Manberg.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But, for all that he’s a literal demon, he’s never been able to turn down someone in need, and Wilbur’s message reeks of barely-contained desperation. Nor is he able to contain his curiosity when faced with such an intriguing puzzle. So, bright and far too early the next morning, he’s strapping his sword to his back and setting off for L’Manberg. To be honest, he’s grumpy for more than just the early hour-- he’d been hoping to drop by and see Sam before they took off once more for the far reaches of the world to work on their super-secret base. It’s been far too long since he’s seen them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The walk to L’Manberg isn’t terribly long, and he’s almost entirely awake by the time the walls come into view, dark against the horizon. Tubbo is waiting for him at the gate, and he just barely represses a sigh. He has nothing against Tubbo-- he’s a great kid (if occasionally foul-mouthed). However, if Tubbo’s here--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“OI! BadBitchHalo!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--Tommy won’t be far behind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tubbo, to his credit, immediately elbows his friend in the ribs, muttering something just too quiet for the demon to hear before pasting on a diplomatic smile. A good one, too-- if not for the dark circles under his eyes and the fact that half of his shirt buttons are in the wrong holes, Bad would wholeheartedly believe that seeing him was making Tubbo’s day.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re here to escort you to your meeting with the president! L’Manberg has been growing quite a lot recently, and Wil-- Mr. Soot wanted to make sure you didn’t get lost. If you’d kindly follow us, please.” There’s no trace of the exhaustion he so clearly feels in Tubbo’s voice. It’s almost concerning how well he can conceal his emotions. Prime forbid he ever decides to use it for evil-- combined with Tommy’s ability to talk anyone around in circles for hours, they’d be downright unstoppable.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The war ended, like, yesterday, how on Earth have you managed to build that much already?” He keeps his tone light, joking. The last thing he needs is an angry Tommy on his hands.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bad wills himself to shrink. His tiny form is only a little taller than Tubbo. It’s disorienting, going from looking down at everyone to suddenly having to look up at most of them, but there’s no way he’s fitting comfortably through the gate without being smaller. Besides, it’s kind of sad watching people almost literally bending over backward to look him in the eye.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We appreciate you coming out here on such short notice,” Tubbo manages to sound completely professional, which is doubly impressive since Tommy is attempting to exact revenge for the elbowing by flicking him repeatedly in the ear. Tubbo’s smile doesn’t so much as flicker, motioning for Bad to follow them through the walls and into the streets of L’Manberg.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The town is nearly enough to distract him-- it’s shockingly big, for the amount of time it’s existed, and he’s honestly very impressed with what they’ve managed to accomplish. But Bad is a demon, no matter how soft and squishy and approachable he makes himself, and there are some things he can’t turn off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To anyone else, the kids probably look fine-- their usual mix of serene, bubbly chaos that has a way of  grabbing you with both hands and dragging you along until you realize that the house you’re helping them egg is your own, but you can’t make yourself care because you’ve never laughed harder. Tommy walks backwards, slightly ahead, talking a mile a minute and gesticulating wildly. Tubbo walks besides Bad, occasionally chiming in with an interesting bit of information when they notice the demon looking at  some building or other. Occasionally, they’ll pull Tommy this way or that, helping the blond navigate around obstacles like it’s second nature. Best friends, bright and happy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their souls tell a different story.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tommy’s bright red, speckled with darker or lighter shades almost like a redstone block, is far too dim on the edges-- a clear sign of inner turmoil. It’s easy to see, once he knows what to look for-- his babbling is even less sensical than normal, words stumbling into each other with little rhyme or reason. His eyes are too bright, almost glassy, and he curses like a challenge, like he’s waiting for Bad to snap so he has an excuse to fight something. The light of his spirit, so unquenchable that it manages to shine through in his normal appearance, is decidedly dimmed as well-- his hair straw blond rather than golden, eyes a cloudy blue instead of their normal electric gleam. The world seems even dimmer in comparison.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tubbo has never shone the same as Tommy, who’s emotions seem to saturate or drain the world of color with their peaks and valleys. The boy’s green has always been more uniform, more balanced, a tad darker and brighter than a slime block and sharing its ability to bounce back from things that would scar or even break someone else. Today, however, he is more like a lilypad-- darker veins run along and through him, thin but decidedly present. He tugs at his sleeves and his eyes skitter about, taking in everything around them like he’s scanning for threats. His explanations are succinct, neat, precise, and just too clinical to feel natural.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s clear that the two are deeply troubled by something.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bad has to stop himself from staring more than once. The souls on the surface are so beautiful, bright and gleaming and full of love and joy and a million things he never saw in his long existence-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>before.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Those souls had been clouded, broken and scarred even before their torment began in earnest, but here-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>here,</span>
  </em>
  <span> even in pain, in conflict, there is compassion. There is sympathy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s fascinating to watch their souls interact, and any other day it would make him smile-- their souls are drawn together even when they aren’t touching, meeting in a gleam of bright white whenever they brush up against each other. Two souls, so contradictory and yet complimentary, and not nearly so different as most would assume. Today, however, the magnetism seems desperate, weary-- two children, huddled together, taking shelter and comfort in the other’s presence. They so clearly handle stress in completely different ways, and yet the two seem to be healing each other through proximity alone. Every time Tubbo pulls Tommy to safety, a dark spot fades out. Each time Tommy cackles, the veins recede a tad more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wilbur is waiting for them-- his smile isn’t quite as good as Tubbo’s, but them, he looks far worse off than the younger boy. His hair is flattened on one side, floofing out in several directions on the other. His jacket  is rumpled, his tri-corner hat is slightly askew, and the bags under his eyes are so dark that, were they not limited to the space under his eyes, Bad would think he’d gotten into a fist fight. And yet, he manages to look almost regal, standing tall and unbowed, arms crossed behind his back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Bad,” he greets, with the air of a man seeing an oasis in a desert. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course!” He does his best to keep the tension out of his posture. Wilbur’s soul grates at his senses-- his bright, flashy gold dimmed and dulled, fraying about the edges. It reaches and reaches and clings to whatever it can find before all but tearing itself free and recoiling. Bad nearly makes a pained noise as he watches Tommy’s red reach out, the way it did so easily with Tubbo, only to flinch and reach harder with every retreat. Tubbo’s green is sturdy, neither retreating nor reaching but simply allowing the other two to lean on him if he so chooses. Sweet, but troubling in the way it sends darker lines skittering across the very fabric of his being.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Soooooo,” he breaks the silence, doing his best to sound upbeat. Maybe if he acts like nothing’s wrong, he can pull them from whatever funk they’re stuck in. “What was it you needed help with, exactly? You’re not gonna throw me in a cell, are you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wilbur’s smile strains for a moment before smoothing. “We’re waiting on my-- on Fundy. He should be here shortly.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tommy snickers, elbowing Tubbo. “We </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> lock ‘im up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bad is nervous for half a second, before relaxing. Tommy is clearly trying to lighten the mood in the only way he knows how-- humor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wha-- HEY!” He squawks, playing along. “On what charges?!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Being a bitch, for one--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Language!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The teen pulls out an ax, and, to Bad’s shock, begins mining out the floor beneath Tubbo. “--Destruction of property too, damn you’re just a shameless bastard, aren’t you? Taking a chunk out of the Prime Path while we’re all right here, watching you? The </span>
  <em>
    <span>nerve--”</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The boards break and Tubbo falls through the gap in the elevated walkway with a monotone scream.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“TUBBO! Oh you</span>
  <em>
    <span> motherfucker--</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“LANGUAGE!” He’s barely holding back laughter as Tubbo is stopped from towering back up to the path by Tommy replacing the planks, right in his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>assault,</span>
  </em>
  <span> that is-- assaulting a child, who is also the Secretary of State-- so would that be treason? Well I s’pose you’re not a citizen so it can’t quite be treason then, it’s-- it’s just fucked up honestly, who would attack such a poor defenseless young boy?” Tommy mock sniffles, shoving Tubbo off the edge of the path just as he finishes hauling himself back over the edge. He falls with another quiet shriek, though this one is cut through with giggles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“L-language!” Bad is half doubled over at this point, not even trying to stop the giggles. Wilbur leans back against the building, gasping for breath and swiping tears from his eyes. His soul brightens and stabilizes, just a bit. Tommy smiles, and the light floods back into the world, and for a minute, everything feels okay.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Me, wrestling my ADD for control of the keyboard: Plot! Progression!</p><p>My ADD, pulling a knife: DROP TUBBO IN A HOLE!</p><p>*accidentally hits the 'post' button*</p><p>Me:</p><p>My ADD: ...Tubbole</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have no posting schedule but sometimes comments encourage me to work faster uwu. Thanks for reading!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>